Make mine a Brazilian

If the title didn’t tip you off, here’s a second warning: stop reading if you’re at all squeamish about that hallowed hallmark of womanhood: The Brazilian Wax.
I used to have a friend who’d routinely book Brazilian appointments for me, while I’d routinely cancel them. She was pro-Braz; I was anti anything that involved wax and/or pain anywhere near my privates. She swore it would change my life. I said I had a year’s worth of Nair to use up. She promised that all guys dug it. I asked my boyfriend at the time who didn’t seem to care either way, and so I continued to live in many years of blissful, depilatoried ignorance, punctuated by the occasional but traumatising pre-holiday bikini wax.
Until yesterday, when I decided it was high time I upgraded from the chicken-out option (bikini wax) to the real deal (The Big B).
It was just past lunch but hoping for some Dutch courage, I guzzled lots of wine before I got there. Arriving at the beautician’s half-cut is never a good look but luckily it’s nothing like a nightclub where there’s a chance they’ll refuse entry if you’re sozzled and resemble a rabbit caught in headlights. In fact, my beautician had obviously endured the tipsy-first-time-Brazilian-victim before and offered to top me up with an extra large glass of sav blanc so I could really get off my face. I could’ve kissed her (but I didn’t, because kissing someone who’s about to brutally rip all the hair out of your nether regions is probably a bit wrong).
Yes folks, it hurts, but not as much as I’d thought. Whether that’s down to the better part of a bottle of wine or my unexpectedly decent pain threshold* I have no idea. Some parts, you’re told to hold your breath, which isn’t a great sign and I admit I resorted to several colourful phrases that would’ve made a nun blush. Looking back though, I was being a total drama queen - even the bad bits only lasted a second and were actually quite bearable. Or perhaps it’s like that new-mother myth**, that the instant you’ve popped out your baby the hours of agony is all but forgotten. After all, I’m already booked in for a maintenance session AND I’m feeling guilty because it turns out my pro-Braz friend was right all along.
Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to christen myself with a porn star name and go admire myself in a mirror.

>>> What’s your take on The Big B? If you’re a girl, is it worth it? And if you’re a guy, does it drive you to distraction, or are you all for a little hair down there?

* Hairy girls do it tough apparently so if you've got a forest, steer clear.
** I may not be a mother yet, but forgetting the pain of childbirth... surely that’s some kind of insider parenting joke?